I tried not to feel anything, I really did, but it was useless. There was surprise, horror, and a wallop of awe. I stared sightlessly at the wood grain of the table. The Fae were quiet until I lifted my head. “Why tell me the bit about Morrighan?”
They traded another meaningful glance; I was starting to resent the dramatics. Lucian finally said, “Morrighan’s dead granddaughter was also the granddaughter of Manannán mac Lir.”
My brain did a queer shimmy. “You’re saying the king is going to be freaked out by how much I look like his dead granddaughter, even though I’m his daughter?” I shook my head. “But it’s easily explained by genetics, right?”
“You are . . .” Greta looked helplessly at her son.
Lucian’s lips pursed as he searched his human vocabulary. “According to those who knew her, you are the ‘spitting image’ of Eleana.”
Eleana.
Now why on earth did that sound familiar?
“It’s uncanny,” Greta said. At my questioning look, she said, “I met her, once, in Tír na Nóg. Before”—she cleared her throat, then finished softly—“before.”
“She was a changeling?” I asked, thinking of my lack of pointed ears and shining skin typical of purebloods.
She shook her head, and Lucian supplied, “There’s a word for Fae who are obsessed with the human world, and it’s not a flattering one.”
“After her parents died, or disappeared, into the Mists,” continued Greta, “Eleana left the Sidhe for the human world, adopting glamour to hide her nature and shunning her birthright.”
“And her grandmother,” added Lucian wryly.
There was something I was missing. It floated in my periphery, a darkness that had nothing to do with the fading daylight. Shrugging off the feeling, I said, “I’m still not sure I want to meet my father, especially since my mother and I look alike. That’s just wrong.” I stared hard at Greta. “Did Eleana have any kids?”
Sorrow touched her eyes. “No.”
“The king didn’t consort with his own legacy,” Lucian said, correctly pinpointing my revulsion. “Moreover, the coupling between your mother and the king happened during the rituals of Beltane in Eamhna.” Spots of color appeared on his cheekbones. “The bonfires and the rituals can be seductive.”
Well, that explained some things Delilah had said, but didn’t explain what the hell she’d been doing in a Sidhe during a fertility festival.
My energy reserves were fading, my eyelids heavy. But I still had questions that needed answers, or no amount of fatigue was going to turn down the volume of my brain enough for sleep. “My mother told me the Greer women aren’t entirely human. Do either of you know what we are?”
They didn’t look surprised, but both shook their heads. Greta said, “I’m sorry. Although I know of this rumor, I do not know its origin.”
“Fine,” I said, stuffing down disappointment. “Next question, which is more of an assumption. Morrighan doesn’t have any other descendants besides Eleana?”
“That’s correct,” said Greta.
“And she’s gone crazy because she can’t have any more kids herself?” I guessed. Lucian nodded. “Delilah was right, then, and fertility is an issue among the Fae.”
Greta nodded. “The opening of the portals has helped, but only minimally. Among the three Sidhes, there is an average of one child born every hundred years.”
Lucian sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Some think it’s the Mother’s way of maintaining the balance of our world. If we procreated at the rate humans do—or used to—our natural resources wouldn’t sustain for long. The Sidhes’ borders have been known to fluctuate, but as far as we know, they’ve never grown substantially.”
I glanced between them. “Is this what you believe?”
“Yes,” replied Lucian, and Greta nodded.
My gaze narrowed. “Do you think that’s what happened in the human world, with Ascension? That Mother Nature—or whatever—decided we needed to be culled?”
They shrugged, though something in Lucian’s eyes told me that was exactly what he believed. A peculiar sensation marched over my scalp. Foreboding. Delayed fear. The question felt like scratching at the door of a dragon’s lair. Foolhardy and ultimately fatal.
Thankfully, Lucian scattered the feeling, saying, “Others link the failure of our bloodlines to the long ago failure to rescue our king and queen.”
“Rescue?” I repeated. “People think someone kidnapped them?”
Greta sent her son a dry glance. “Among the Shadow Court, there is a small sect that adheres to that belief. But it is not widely accepted.”
I chewed my lip, my thoughts folding in on one another, growing more chaotic as I wrestled with all I’d learned. After a minute or so, I picked one thread from the jumble and asked, “The Sidhes—do you know where they come from? Are they real, as in physical? Another dimension or something?” Lucian gave me an odd look. “What?”
“While you were here, last month, we had a long discussion about this topic.”
Greta murmured, “Morrighan is of the First Legacy. Do not underestimate her powers.”
Which reminded me . . . “You said Morrighan was an exception to the division of powers between the Sidhe? What exactly is she capable of?”
An eerie howl sounded nearby. We stiffened at the table, our heads turning as one toward the cottage’s front door. My stomach plummeted, but after another howl, Greta released a sigh. “A natural beast,” she said, though fear underlay the calm of her words.
Lucian said gravely, “No one knows the extent of Morrighan’s powers. Her myths are varied and often contradictory, and she thrives on maintaining an air of mystery. It’s common knowledge, however, that she holds sway over beasts of the Underworld, the hounds and ravens. She also bears the rare gift of transmutation. The Maiden brings joy, the Woman brings life, and the Crone, death.”
“Her form as you’ve seen it is her true face,” Greta supplied, “but remember well, Fiona, that members of the First Legacy, those first companions of our Mother and Father, are not limited as we now are.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“They hold multiple bloodlines,” replied Lucian, his stare on my face. “Multiple powers. Like you.”
Hope blossomed, a fragile construct. “My powers are still inside me, even though I can’t reach them anymore?”
Greta nodded, and I released the breath I’d been holding. “In fact, your blood sings three songs.” My brows went up, and she clarified, “It’s a part of my gifts, recognizing power lines.”
I froze as her words registered. “Three songs?” I asked, then before she could answer, I held up a hand. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know.” I massaged my temples. “No wonder she wants to breed me.”
“Indeed,” murmured Greta. “The lure and difficulty of having a legacy haunts many Fae, and most deeply the ancient ones.”
Again, the sense of missing some vital piece of information nagged at me, moving like smoke just outside my line of sight. Lucian yawned, and I followed suit.
Greta stood. “Rest, both of you. My friends will sound the alarm if danger comes.”
“Friends?” I asked, then yawned again.
She smiled. “You saw them in the clearing, I think.”
“Pixies,” said Lucian, then headed for one of the two makeshift sleeping pallets near the hearth.
I had seen them. Tiny, golden figures dancing in the sunbeams. And with that added bonus to the cocktail of surreal I’d just swallowed, I stumbled to my own pallet.
I was out before my head hit the blankets.